Chapter summary: Curufinwë and Netyarë discover that for an important little while, they can have a conversation in words without sharp edges.

Chapter VI / Words without edgs

On a rainy spring morning Curufinwë does not go to the smithy but instead stays at home reading a treatise on new methods in metallurgy. Nerdanel mentioned at breakfast that Netyarë would be coming by later to model for her, and that is when Curufinwë decided that he would stay in.

He can finally admit to himself that the prospect of seeing Netyarë is enough to make him change his plans, but this is a good day to stay out of the forge anyway because it is one of those rare occasions when Tyelcormo chooses to join his father and brothers at the smithy instead of gallivanting in the woods. And Tyelco may be Curufinwë's favourite brother, but he is terrible company when working: distractingly garrulous when all is well and then very short-tempered when something goes wrong.

So concentrating on any important work in the smithy would be impossible anyway, and he lets his family think that this is the reason he is spending his day reading.

Not that concentrating on the treatise alone at home is easy either. Curufinwë keeps listening for Netyarë's footsteps, as he hopes to waylay her and exchange a few words before she goes to Nerdanel's studio. But he should really read while he waits.

Curufinwë closes his eyes for a moment, rubs his temples and gathers his willpower to focus on the words in front of him. He is somewhat successful, but his concentration is broken again only minutes later by his mother who approaches him looking very harassed.

'Atarincë dear, I have to go out to meet the twins' tutor. I have received a very angry message from him that one of the Ambarussar had spread glue on his chair – that is, the tutor's chair, not your brother's – and the other propped a pot of ink on top of the door... He doesn't know which one did which.'

'Doesn't really matter, does it?' says Curufinwë as he hides a smile. He had had the same tutor, a stuffy old bore. The twins' pranks sound very elementary – he had come up with more devious schemes himself – but quite effective. 'I'm impressed that he managed to send you a message with ink in his eyes and his robes glued to his chair.'

'Apparently he made Ambarto write it, and I must say, I am really not impressed with how little his penmanship has improved recently.' Nerdanel is wrapping herself in a heavy scarf and cloak, for it is still raining outside.

'Then it's not much of a pity if you have to find another tutor, is it?'

This does not seem to bring much consolation to his long-suffering mother. 'I will be late for my meeting with Netyarë. You will make sure that the servants offer her refreshments and show her to a warm room while she waits for me?'

'Of course, mother.'

Nerdanel goes, muttering about how having young twin sons is more than twice the trouble. Curufinwë does not go to give instructions to the servants. Instead he moves to the entrance hall to continue his reading there, and greets Netyarë himself when she arrives.

Curufinwë sends word to the kitchen to have some wine and fruits brought to them and leads Netyarë to the sitting room at the back of the house. He adds more firewood to the merry fire blazing in the hearth, as Netyarë's clothes are damp in spite of the cloak she had been wearing. They take seats in front of the fireplace and watch out the window as rain falls in the garden that is a riot of colours, the bright green leaves of spring and early-blooming flowers in countless clashing hues.

'Ever since I first saw your garden I have thought that your mother must have planned it, or chosen the colours at least', says Netyarë with a smile.

'She did, and it is a mess, isn't it? Father is always threatening to get rid of half the colours. He never gets around to doing it, though.'

They admire the garden for a moment longer, and then after a maid has brought the food and wine they start arguing about the aesthetics of chaos and order. In the middle of laying out her second argument Netyarë realises that Curufinwë isn't listening, he is just staring at her. And not even into her eyes, as he sometimes does to try to playfully intimidate or confuse her, but somewhere below her eyes. Netyarë lifts a hand and tries to feel if she has a spot of paint on her chin.

To ease her sudden self-consciousness, or to move it to him, she says, 'You look even stranger than usually. What it is now?'

'I want to kiss you.'

Finally. She hadn't wanted to be the one to say it first; it would have made him far too smug. And, in the name of honesty, she must admit to herself that she has been scared, too; scared that in spite of everything she has seen in his eyes he does not feel as she does.

Curufinwë had fully expected her to be appalled by his words, and now that she seems completely unsurprised he is shocked and speechless, instead.

'I see', Netyarë says after a moment. 'Well, are you going to?'

'I – you – why aren't you calling me impertinent and slapping me?' Curufinwë now regrets that he lost control and bared his feelings in a very inelegant way.

Netyarë thinks that it is delicious to see him lost for words, but to gloat now would be a sour start for this new phase in their relationship. So she says, 'Because I would rather kiss you, too, than slap you', and smiles at him with genuine happiness.

'Oh.'

Curufinwë gets up from his chair and Netyarë stands up too. Her head only comes up to his chin, so she has to look up at him as always, but this time not much, for he bends his head down to her.

'I wonder if sparks will fly out', she says softly, and he can feel the words as much as he can hear them, little shocks that travel down his body.

He takes a deep breath, then is mortified by it for a split second until the mortification is drowned out by the exhilaration and desire coursing through him like the wild rivers of springtime. 'Let's see if they will.'

They both move closer and meet each other halfway, feather-light at first. Then sparks do fly out and they are wrapped in flame, in each other.

Only a little later Nerdanel comes home and to the door of the garden-side sitting room, unwrapping a damp scarf from around her head. She opens her mouth to speak a greeting, then closes it at once when she sees the two figures on a settee.

Netyarë is sitting in Curufinwë's lap, their foreheads together and their hands in one another's hair. For once, they are speaking quietly, whispering words with no sharp edges yet carrying more weight than anything they have said to each other before.

Nerdanel backs away as silently as she can, smiling to herself, and goes to finish the statue of Netyarë that she decided weeks ago would not be part of the seasonal collection but a gift for Curufinwë.

Curufinwë and Netyarë stay in the sitting room for a long time as the rain continues to spatter against the windows and the fire in the hearth eventually burns itself out untended. But they do not get cold because they keep as close together as they can, touching all the time. They learn the shape of each other's faces with their lips and fingers, as they already had learned with their eyes over the long time that it took them to come to understand that the person they best liked arguing with was the person they would best like loving.

And all the while – well, all the while when they are not too busy kissing – they speak of their love, and then their future. Betrothal, wedding, married life. Little by little their conversation becomes less tender and more like their usual sharp-tongued manner of talking to one another.

Curufinwë is impatient, wanting everything at once now that he knows what it is that he wants, and Netyarë is not particularly interested in waiting either.

'But we must be engaged for one year at least, it is the custom', Netyarë reminds him as she gently unravels one of the small braids that has been keeping his hair back. 'Our families would be upset if we did not adhere to it.'

'I will allow a year, and not a day more. And the betrothal feast will be as soon as can be arranged.' He speaks very firmly and squeezes Netyarë a little for emphasis. And because she is so lovely to touch, and he is finally allowed to.

'We are not even officially betrothed yet and you are already behaving like a tyrant.' She takes the now-freed strand of his hair between her fingers and pulls, just hard enough to make him wince a little. 'I must warn you that I do not intend to be a very obedient wife.'

'That is for the best, I believe, for it would be a nasty shock for me if you were.'

Netyarë tries to look outraged but the wicked grin full of happiness on his lips is just too much, and she has to cover it with her own lips. They kiss for a long time, savouring the tastes and sensations that are quickly becoming familiar but no less wonderful for it, until Curufinwë shifts restlessly. Netyarë breaks the kiss and gets off his lap, fearing that his thighs are getting tired, and sits next to him on the settee. He lifts his arm and she scoots under it and leans against him.

Curufinwë kisses the top of her head, then takes her right hand in his. He needs to concentrate on something else besides the wonderfulness of her body for a moment.

'I will make you the most beautiful rings you have ever seen', he says, studying her fingers with professional interest, already envisioning in his mind the silver and gold bands that he will give her.

A mischievous little smile appears on Netyarë's face even as she enjoys his touch and her heart is warmed by his words. 'And I will commission for you rings that I can afford, whatever they are like.'

He raises his gaze to her eyes, genuine horror in his. 'In the name of the Valar, you wouldn't make me wear inferior craftsmanship, would you? If you love me like you say you do', and he is very serious now, in genuine distress, and Netyarë doesn't know whether she wants to laugh at him or comfort him, 'please, my dear heart, ask my father or even one of my brothers if they will make the rings for you. The gold, at least – I can perhaps tolerate a shoddily-made silver ring for one year, but the gold is for eternity.'

'Yes, my love, it is for eternity', she says gently, and reaches up to kiss him softly. 'Of course I would not make you suffer like that. I will ask your father, and if he refuses, well, then we know that you're not his favourite son after all.'

With Netyarë's teasing words, the calmness and gentleness she had just brought back between them disappears again, and this is how it will always be between the two of them: tender moments alternating with their very own brand of impudent directness. Those who do not know them wonder at it, but Curufinwë and Netyarë know it to be the way they best understand each other.

'I used to think that love was a thoroughly gentle thing, an accord or harmony of spirits. Maybe that is why I did not seek it like many young men do – it did not sound like something that would suit me, or something that I was even capable of.' Curufinwë strokes the back of Netyarë's neck lightly, a caress which, he has already learned, will make her tremble and let out exquisite little noises. 'We spend more time insulting each other than speaking syrupy compliments.'

'And it suits you better, and me too, though I would not have thought so before I met you.' Netyarë's voice is more than a little breathy. 'I think that each love must be like the two people who share it. Ours is both sharp and sweet.'

'That's funny.' He sniffs her hair, and she gives him a puzzled look. He explains, 'Sharp and sweet is what I call your scent in my mind. It's like lemons and strawberries.'

'I use soap perfumed with lemon and strawberry, says Netyarë, smiling a little at his words.

'There's that mystery solved, then.' His face buried in her hair, Curufinwë sighs. 'I suppose we must, at some point soon, leave this room and go tell our news to our families. Before one of my parents, or worse, one of my innumerable brothers, walks in and finds us like this.'

'Your breath is tickling me', Netyarë says but does not push him away, lifting a hand to pet his hair instead. 'Yes, I suppose we must go. But not just quite yet. It's so lovely here. Let's have a few moments more together.'

'A few moments more now', Curufinwë agrees, 'and in a year, forever.'